


The Woods Are Creepy, Dark and Deep

by Zigster



Series: The Red Hoodie Series [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Boys Kissing Boys, Cheeseburgers, Creepy woods, Feelings, Leather Jacket Sniffing, Lightsabers, M/M, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Derek, Red Hoodie, Spastic Stiles, make out sessions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-09
Updated: 2012-08-20
Packaged: 2017-11-11 19:26:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/482055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zigster/pseuds/Zigster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is wondering what this "marking" business is all about.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Part 1 of a 5 part deal. Beta'd by FarD. Enjoy!

_“The woods are lovely, dark and deep . . ._

“Okay, very funny.”

Stiles walks along the forest floor, a book of Robert Frost’s poetry in one hand, flashlight in the other. It was homework, after all, and even if Scott wants him to track raccoons or bogey monsters at midnight, Stiles knows that this shit is still be due tomorrow. The fact that the poem he’s been assigned is oddly fitting doesn’t escape his notice.

“I’d prefer if I didn’t have _miles to go before I sleep_ , dude,” he shouts into the night, air puffing in front of him.

No one answers.

“Scott?”

Still only silence meets him. Instinct kicks in, and the hairs on the back of his pale neck stand on end.

 _“Just keep swimming . . . just keep swimming . . ._ swimming. Or walking. Or breathing. Just keep breathing. Seriously, why am I the one who always gets left behind? The dude who can’t defend himself, dammit.”

Stiles stumbles on a root beneath a patch of leaves, and only then does he notice the trip wire not two feet ahead of him. He side steps the trap, and leaves a wide birth between himself and the section of the path he was just walking.

Looking over his shoulder and feeling smug he shouts, “That’s right! Who’s got the Spidey senses now, bitch . . . eeek!” his voice cuts off in an embarrassing shriek as his leg is flung out from beneath him and and he jack knifes into the air in a fit of flailing limbs. Books from his backpack plop onto the forest floor one by one, along with his flashlight and cell phone from the pocket of his red hoodie and before he knows it, he’s alone in the dark with not even the chirp of crickets to keep him company.

“Well, shit.”

Stiles folds his arms over his chest and tries to think the best he can, while staving off a panic attack and the severe amounts of blood pooling in his brain.

The snap of a twig breaks his tenuous concentration and he’s flailing like a monkey in no time.

“Hello? Hey! Dude! DUDE!”

He’s spinning in circles, using his free leg as momentum to propel him around before a strong hand grabs hold of his hip and digs in deep with a fierceness that could only be considered supernatural. The strength of which stops Stiles cold.

“Scott?”

The hand turns Stiles around slowly, leaving him level with a pair of tight denims and an obnoxiously large belt buckle.

Not Scott, then.

“You were making more noise than a dying hippo. Do you have any sense of self-preservation?”

“Yeah, right, like you’ve seen a dying hippo first hand.” Stiles’ eyes shoot upward, away from the shiny belt buckle, and into the gaze of Derek Hale.

Derek merely lifts an eyebrow.

“You have? Dude! Details! Where were you? Oh my god, you didn’t do it, did you? How could you kill a hippo! They’re like big, fat, wet, hairless puppies! You killed a fat puppy!”

With a sigh and a huff, Derek lets go of Stiles’ hip and he’s left swinging in the cold night air again. Alone. It takes him all of five seconds to realize this before he’s shouting.

“Derek! DEREK! Seriously, dude, I can go all night like this. I’m in SERIOUS need of Adderall and my pill bottle is hanging out somewhere beneath me in my backpack. My head is only getting lighter, and you KNOW I can run my mouth until I pass out. You’ve seen me do it!”

The hand is back on his hip in no time and Stiles does a celebratory fist pump before a second fist is thrust into his gut, making him choke and splutter.

“Huh . . . huh . . ow.”

“What part of shut up do you not understand?” Derek’s voice is a low growl in his ear.

“You never actually said shut up, so . . . “

“Self preservation, you idiot. The Argents are coming and with the way you were carrying on they’ll know I’m near. Thank you, by the way.”

“Well maybe if you’d CUT ME DOWN I wouldn’t have alerted the enemy.”

“If I cut you down, they’d know. So shut up, and wait.”

Derek’s gone in a flash and Stiles is flailing like a wet kitten in a puddle. His red hoodie is all but tangled around his shoulders at this point, and his exposed torso is covered in gooseflesh from the cold.

“Where the fuck is Scott?”

“I was hoping you could tell me.”

“Whoa! Mr. Argent. Hey!” Stiles waves at the man as if they were passing in the school hallway.

“Hi, Stiles. Having a good evening?”

“Oh, you know. Just . . . hanging out.”

“I see that.”

“You don’t suppose you could, yah know, get me down, could you?”

“Of course. My apologies.”

It takes two seconds for Mr. Argent to cut Stiles from his trap and the kid is sprawled on the ground, his dead flashlight digging into the same hip Derek Hale had just claimed with his wolf hand claws. Bastard.

“Thanks,” Stiles says as he stands and brushes the leaves and twigs off his clothes.

“What are you doing out here, Stiles?”

“Just . . . walking. Yah know, over the river . . . through the woods . . .” He gestures around him as if it will help his explanation, but Mr. Argent’s blue eyes are not amused.

“And where is Grandmother’s house, Stiles?”

Swallowing hard, Stiles points in the opposite direction of Derek Hale’s house. Mr. Argent looks over his shoulder with a smile, and Stiles bites back the urge to comment on a forty-something year-old man walking around with his collar popped on his coat like some James Dean parody. They stare at each other for a rather awkward amount of time before Mr. Argent shakes his head and sighs.

“Go home, Stiles.”

“Yes, sir.” He salutes, and then grabs for his books and backpack in a flurry of gangly limbs and flying leaves. He’s running like a rabid squirrel away from Mr. Argent within seconds of his dismissal, grumbling the whole time: seriously going to kill Scott. He’s probably bumping uglies with Allison right now in a dilapidated tree house, while I’m being threatened by Alphas and were hunters and all I wanted was a damn cheeseburger and a frosty. The simple things in life, dude. That’s all I ask for and yet, I’m out here, lost in the woods. . .

He looks up as a hand presses hard against his chest and screams like a girl when he sees it’s Peter.

“What the . . . How are you . . . where did you . . . Gah!”

Another hand clamps down on his mouth before he can continue freaking out and a familiar voice is growling in his ear. “Self preservation, idiot. Shut. Up.”

Arms are caged around him like a vice before he can even register their presence and he’s plastered against the very solid body of one Derek Hale, while facing down a very much alive Peter. He thinks in a begrudging moment of clarity, that Robert Frost must have never lived in Beacon Hills because the woods are fucking creepy, dark and deep as opposed to lovely. What an idiot, that Frost dude was.

“What is this, Derek?”

Stiles quirks his eyebrow at Peter in confusion, because it’s not like the guy doesn’t know who Stiles is. He spent an entire evening threatening him and everyone he loved only a few months ago. Are werewolves that forgetful?

Stiles only realizes the men on either side of him have stopped communicating in English when growls are all that’s being shared between them. Derek’s growls get louder, and his arms grasp Stiles tighter, whenever Peter moves to step forward.

“Back!” he snaps, and Stiles flinches from the anger in his tone.

“I’d listen to this guy, Pete. He seems peeved.”

Derek jerks Stiles neck to the side and breaths deep into the skin of his throat before huffing out hot on his ear. “Shut up.”

That last particular move is what makes Stiles realize that something is amiss with Derek’s behavior. So, he decides to change tactics. Peter isn’t giving off any more psychotic vibes than usual and that’s good enough for Stiles.

“What’s happening?”

Peter smirks at the kid. His eyes are smug as his gaze switches from him to Derek and back.

“You don’t know, Stiles?”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Why else would I be asking . . . okay!” he shouts at Derek as he growls once again in his ear. He looks up at the sky on instinct to check the position of the moon, seeing it fat and heavy, almost full, above them. When he looks back at Peter, the man has disappeared and Derek has torn off into the forest in the direction of his home, leaving Stiles once again alone.

Scott comes huffing out of the woods from the west a moment later, his cheeks flushed and his hair full of leaves and twigs. There’s a hickey on his neck that’s rapidly healing, and a smile so large and goofy on his face Stiles can’t even find it in himself to yell at the bastard for leaving him alone in a forest full of were-hunters, rabid alphas, and supposedly-dead-but-very-much-alive ex-alphas.

“Let’s go home, dude. I’m beat.”

“Me too,” Scott chuckles.

“Oh shut up.”

Scott’s hand presses hard to Stiles chest just as he’s about to start walking and Stiles throws his arms up in the air in frustration. “Will you all please stop doing that!”

Scott ignores him and sniffs at his neck and, more disturbingly, down by his hip.

“Dude!” Stiles jumps back from a very wolfy looking Scott before the kid starts pissing on him.

“You smell like Derek.”

“Well, yeah. He found me out here while you and Allison were doing the horizontal tango. Oh, FYI, Peter’s alive. Did you know?”

Scott’s eyes are yellow, and his pupils are blown wide as he steps back from Stiles and crouches to his haunches. It’s not a reassuring gesture. The fact that he’s not reacting at all to the news of Peter and is still sniffing the air like a drug-dog in an airport is freaking Stiles out.

“What the fuck, dude?”

It takes a minute, but Scott shakes his head and returns to standing like a normal human.

On their way home it doesn’t escape Stiles’ notice that Scott is keeping several feet between them, and leans as close to the passenger side door of his Jeep as he can while Stiles drives him back to his house.

The next day, after school, Stiles finally gets the chance to sit down with his cheeseburger and Oreo frosty at the diner, while working on some more shit-ass poetry for English. Scott sits across from him, his face plastered to Allison’s as they work on their own form of poetry. The kind that involves tongues and hormones and sappy ass puppy-dog smiles. Stiles thanks the gods of Oreos and milkshakes as he focuses on the glorious combination, as opposed to his friends and their sex life.

“Hello, Stiles.”

Peter slipping into the booth next to him and draping an arm over his shoulder does not go unnoticed by Scott this time, and he’s eyes are glowing yellow as soon as he tears himself away from Allison’s face.

Peter raises up his hands in surrender.

“Everybody stay calm. I mean no harm.”

“Dude, you’re way too creepy for us to believe you. You know that, right?” Stiles tries to shimmy his way out of Peter’s grip but it’s no use.

Peter merely smiles at Stiles. “I have a message for you.”

“Me?”

“Him?” Scott asks, looking confused.

Stiles immediately gets defensive. “Hey!”

Scott shakes his head. “Sorry.”

“What’s the message?” Allison asks, her purse placed on the table in front of her. Everyone knows there’s a mini-crossbow in there with a silver arrow ready to be shot into Peter’s skull but he doesn’t seem worried in the least.

“Well, it’s not a very long message.”

“So, give it to me.”

Peter smiles, smug and victorious and then moves too fast for anyone to see except Scott who watches him lick a solid, wet stripe up Stiles’ neck, throat to temple. He’s gone before Stiles starts flailing like he’s just been sprayed with acid and simultaneously set on fire. Scott is too confused to even give chase.

“Dude! Did I just get licked? Ew!” Stiles starts throwing books in his backpack and looks longingly at his cheeseburger as he moves to leave the booth.

“What are you doing?” Scott asks.

Stiles looks back. “Going to shower. And scrub myself with bleach. A werewolf just licked me and ew.”

“Stiles!” Scott is sitting there with his arms out, demanding an explanation.

“Oh, alright.” Stiles grabs his cheeseburger and shoves it in his mouth in one bite.

“Happy?” he mumbles around meat and bun before pushing out the diner door with a huff.

Scott and Allison are left with matching looks of concern on their faces.

“Did Peter just try to . . . “

“Mark, Stiles?”

“Yeah.”

“Yes.”

“Why on earth would he want to?”

“Because of Derek.”

“What?”

“I gotta go.” Scott kisses the back of Allison’s hand, before throwing a twenty down on the table and leaving the diner. Allison looks back at the seat Stiles has just occupied and steals one of his fries, her eyes calculating.

 

Stiles would never admit it, but walking through the woods is one of the few things that calms his anxiety. The quiet wall of trees, the rhythmic lull of birds, crickets, and wind whistling through leaves mix to create a white noise that soothes the constant bombardment of thoughts and scattered fragments of rambles running through his head. He wouldn’t go as far as to call it meditative, but it definitely can leave him with a zen-like feeling if he stays long enough in the silence.

Today, unbeknownst to Stiles, is not going to be a zen-like day. He’s just settling himself against a cozy tree that fits the exact curve of his back when he hears a growl in the near distance before him. His notebook and pen go flying, as he jumps from being cross legged on the forest floor to laying flat on his stomach as if he were in the trenches. His eyes are wide and his hands are throwing his red hood over his head, as if the cotton could help protect him.

The growl only grows deeper, more angry as his pulse jumps in his throat and his mouth goes dry. He’s fumbling for his cell phone when a pair of leather boots flank his shoulders. He looks from foot to foot, noting that they’re probably Italian and who the hell would pay for Italian boots when they’re going to be traipsing through the woods ruining them, when he’s suddenly hauled up by the back of his hood. He hears the fabric rip and that brings him barreling into the present.

“Hey! This is my favorite sweatshirt!”

There’s a nose at his throat and a hand clamped high around his neck, squeezing his voice quiet before he can complain any further. Behind him is nothing but hard plains of muscle and body, and it’s unsettling that anyone could be so rigid. The thought occurs to him that it could be Peter assaulting him again, and he starts flailing like a dolphin being paid to do tricks at Sea World.  
“Hold. Still.”

Stiles goes limp immediately. And then he starts shouting. “God dammit, Derek! You had me freaking out! Could you please stop with the hissing, and the growling and the clamping of your hannnnn----” Derek’s constricting grip on Stiles’ throat prevents him from speaking further, and all Stiles can do is pout and scowl at the trees.

“Why were you with Peter?”

Stiles just throws his hands up in the air, hoping that the idiot preventing him from talking will realize that he can’t answer if he doesn’t have access to air. Derek releases him and he falls to his knees on the forest floor.

“I’m getting really sick of you doing that.”

“Why do you smell like Peter?”

His growl demands an answer and Stiles just growls right back, mocking him. “Why do you smell like . . . Because the creep licked me, okay? I’m not proud of it! I scrubbed my face raw in the shower, how the hell can you still smell it?”

“He marked you.”

Stiles crawls back on his hands and knees when he sees how alien Derek’s eyes are. They’re red. All wolf, and all instinct. It’s fascinating and terrifying.

“He didn’t pee on me, if that’s what you mean.”

The remark only earns Stiles the pop of Derek’s claws. His hands are suddenly all wolf too, and Stiles moves further away from crazed-Derek. He doesn’t know how to deal with this side of him, and that makes him anxious.

“Derek, why are you wolfing out on me, here?”

“He marked you.”

“Yeah, we’ve established that. But I scrubbed it off.”

“A mark is a mark and he covered mine.”

Stiles blinks up at the red-eyed insane person that’s taken over Derek’s body. “What?”

A howl erupts, loud and long from Derek before he falls, arms on either side of Stiles’ body, holding himself above him with nothing but anger in his eyes. Stiles is frozen beneath him, too nervous to move and decides that maybe Wolfy Derek is like the T-Rex from Jurassic Park and if he stays still enough, Derek won’t see him.

Of course, he’s wrong.

“You’re. _Mine._ ” Derek’s voice is nothing but a grumble that Stiles can actually feel vibrate through him, as the man mouths at his throat, all hot breath and blunt teeth that thankfully don’t break skin. Stiles looks up to see the sun low behind the horizon and the moon arching its way towards the sky, full and pale in the dying light.

When he feels a sharp pain at his collarbone, he jerks his attention back to the Derek dobblegagnger above him. He’s sliced an angry red line along the bone at the base of his throat with one sharp claw, and Stiles’ eyes go wide as he sees the blood pool in the dip of his shoulder where his sweatshirt has been torn.

“What the fuck, Derek?!”

But Derek is nothing but a creature above him. His face remains human but his eyes and teeth and hands are all were, sucking hard on the finger that cut Stiles’ throat before leaning his head down and lapping at the wound like a dog at a water bowl. He leaves behind nothing but pink skin and a white line that feels decidedly like a scar to Stiles, as he fingers what used to be a gash. Derek sits back on his haunches, straddling him. His face is smug as Stiles climbs to his elbows, stunned speechless by his behavior.

“What did you just do?”

“Something Peter can’t undo.”

A branch breaks behind the two of them and Derek hauls Stiles to a sitting position faster than he can blink, rips his sweatshirt from his arms and drapes his leather jacket over his shoulders in its place. He’s gone the next second, leaving Stiles utterly baffled behind him. Flopping back onto the leaves and dirt, Stiles runs his hands over his scruffy head and fingers the thin scar along his collarbone, contemplating what this big ass pissing contest is really all about.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles learns that he likes the smell of Derek's jacket. A lot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by FarD

Stiles stares up at his ceiling with a blank expression, his mind surprisingly void of thought. Derek’s leather jacket is draped over him like a blanket, practically swallowing him whole. Stiles decided several hours ago that sniffing the collar of the jacket every few minutes does not make him a creep, it merely just proves that he has very good taste in cologne. Whatever type Derek uses must be very expensive and laced with magical baby fairy dust because damn, it smells amazing.

No, this is not creepy.

The Sheriff knocks on the door and the coat goes flying, along with all of Stiles’ limbs as he jumps out of bed and throws the jacket to the other side of the room. It lands with a heavy thud behind his desk chair as his dad opens the door. Stiles is left in the center of the room, with his hands in his pockets trying to look natural. Instead, his left eyebrow is twitching and he’s smiling so hard his face hurts.

His father shakes his head, says goodnight and closes the door again. Stiles thinks he’s successfully thrown his father off the scent of . . . whatever, but the door opens up suddenly, just as Stiles is sitting back down on the bed and scratching the back of his neck. He’s mid scratch, staring at his dad, who, in turn, is staring at Stiles, his eyes narrowed.

“Are you watching porn?”

Stiles chokes on air and starts hacking like a three-pack-a-day smoker.

“It’s okay! I mean, I guess . . . it’s kind of okay? I dunno. I know kids get curious, and I guess it’s better that you’re in here being curious and not out there being curious. Or maybe you should be out there? Shit. I don’t know.”

Both the Sheriff and Stiles are now scratching their necks in unison, as they stare at anywhere but each other. It’s like a giant awkward turtle is sitting on the bed behind Stiles, because he can’t even bring himself to speak.

When he finally finds his voice, it breaks as he says, “I wasn’t looking at porn.”

His father lets out a sigh of relief. Stiles tries not to seem offended. So what if he was watching porn? Every normal, teenage male watches porn. His father probably still watches porn.

That thought brings to the forefront of his mind things Stiles never wants to imagine, ever. He decides he’s going to bleach his brain in the morning along with brushing his teeth.

Good plan.

“Can I go to bed now?”

“Sure. Sure, kid. Uh . . . night?”

“Night, dad.”

Stiles flops back on his bed as soon as his father’s footsteps have fallen silent down the hall. He shouldn’t feel so damn guilty, but he can’t help it if his father had reason to suspect whatever the hell Stiles was doing in his room was something less than innocent - even if he was only lying on his bed.

Taking a deep breath he admits to himself that the smell of Derek’s jacket is soothing, addicting even. In fact, it’s downright heady. He’s never really understood that word until he felt the weight of that jacket on his shoulders, and the heavy, warm smell of its leather under his nose. _Heady._ That’s exactly what it is. A smell that promises more and leaves a lingering expectation behind, that quickly turns teasing if Stiles lets it.

It’s a damn complicated jacket, and Stiles has no idea why Derek left it with him except it might have something to do with this whole _marking_ business.

But why does Derek want to mark Stiles?

Why does Stiles feel excitement over the fact that he did?

Why is he still sniffing the damn jacket?

He looks down in his hands at the cracked black leather and wonders how it got there. He must have dug it out from behind his desk chair while pondering the meaning of life or something, because the heavy, heady thing is in his hands and he can’t help but bury his nose in its warmth.

 

Sunlight lays heavy on his eyelids as Stiles stirs from his sleep. He smiles as he stretches and curls back round his pillow, cradling it like a baby spoon, when he realizes that it’s entirely too lumpy to be a pillow.

Opening his eyes he looks down to see the leather jacket plastered to his side. He’s even thrown a leg over the bottom half of it and he’s practically dry humping the poor, unsuspecting piece of clothing like a jack rabbit, he’s so damn horny. His morning wood is tearing at his boxers, demanding attention and Stiles groans at how angry red the head of his cock is when he frees it from its plaid prison.

He’s about to palm himself and take care of business when he hears a throat clear from the corner and suddenly, he’s jumping up in bed and holding onto the jacket for dear life, as if the thing could protect him.

“What the . . . Derek! Dammit!”

“Morning.”

“Fuck off! Quit scaring the crap out of me.”

“I came for my jacket.”

Derek’s face is all smugness and smiles, as he takes in the death grip that Stiles has on what’s his. The wolf inside him practically purrs in contentment to see the boy so fiercely holding onto something Derek gave him. On instinct, Derek stands taller, his shoulders squared.

“Are you trying to intimidate me?”

“Do I need to?”

Stiles pouts. Literally pouts and stares down at the leather in his hands like he’s Linus and the jacket is his blanket. _Please Lucy, don’t take my blanket._

A thought then occurs to him. “You have my hoodie!”

Derek nods. “I do.”

“Well . . . I won’t give this back until you give me my red hoodie back.” The argument is about as pitiful as his expression but he’s already been caught with his dick out, so in terms of embarrassment he can’t stoop much lower.

“I can’t give you your hoodie back.”

Stiles’ mouth drops. “Why not?”

Derek shrugs.

“Fine! No jacket.”

The smile on Derek’s face is not what Stiles is expecting and it makes him nervous. He can handle life-threatening Derek. He can’t handle this smiling, shrugging Derek. It’s the smile that’s throwing him the most. The smile is making him weak. The smile needs to stop.

“Stop smiling.”

It doesn’t work. Derek’s smile turns radiant, like he’s just won the lottery. Stiles’ anxiety levels spike to high alert, so he grabs a pillow for good measure. Jacket. Pillow. Surely those will keep him safe from the big, bad, smiling wolf in front of him.

“You should take care of that, Stiles.”

Derek nods his head in the direction of Stiles’ crotch and Stiles shoves the jacket in front of his junk. His eyes go wide at the realization of what he’s just done and is about to switch out the jacket for the pillow, when Derek’s smile fades and his eyes bloom red in the morning light.

“Don’t.”

Stiles pauses, the pillow held awkwardly in mid air in front of him. “Don’t what?”

Derek leans over the bed and removes the pillow from Stiles’ hand. He takes a deep sniff of the innocent thing before tossing it blindly over his shoulder. It lands in a pile of laundry.

Stiles has never felt this uncomfortable in his entire life. And having grown up with ADHD that is an insane list to top, and yet, this current situation with Derek in front of him and his junk half exposed and the damn leather jacket lingering between them in some sort of semi-erotic limbo, has soared to number one on The Moments of Stiles’ Fucked Up Life list.

“Derek, throw me a bone here.”

“You already have one.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Seriously, what do you want? You’re freaking me out.”

“I want you to take care of that.” He nods again to Stiles’ still painfully hard erection and the acknowledgement seems to encourage his penis, because the thing practically salutes Derek with a twitch that slaps against his stomach. _Traitor._

Stiles winces and finally covers himself with his hand. He decides to just keep his eyes closed and maybe Derek will go away.

Instead of leaving, the man only gets closer because the next thing he knows, Derek’s voice is hot and heavy in his ear.

“Do it, Stiles.”

The jacket is once again draped over his shoulders.

“Think of me when you come.”

The statement propels Stiles to open his eyes, and he’s met with an empty room and a mind racing with too many images at once. He squeezes his eyes shut but it’s too late, the seed has been planted and suddenly he can’t think of anything else but that man and the fucking jacket, and the god damned smell of the leather under his nose.

With shaky hands, he palms himself. He’s whimpering and crying out Derek’s name within minutes. It’s only afterwards, when he doesn’t stop crying that he starts to process what he’s done - what Derek’s done. He launches the jacket across the room with a shameful growl and buries his head in the sheets, red-faced and terrified.

 

“Dude, you okay?”

“Huh. What? Me? Of course! Yeah, totally. Why, wh--why wouldn’t I be okay?”

His leg is bouncing a mile a minute beneath his desk chair and he’s pretty sure that Scott can see him practically vibrating out of his seat, but he tries to smile nonetheless.

Scott scowls at him. “You’re not okay.”

“I’m great! Look at me.” Stiles shows himself off like he’s a clue on Wheel of Fortune, complete with jazz hands as Scott’s face grows more concerned.

“You’re weird today.”

“I’m always weird.”

“Not this weird.”

“Well, thanks dude. It’s your undying love that really keeps me going.”

“Seriously, Stiles. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing!”

His tone finally cuts through Scott’s puppy dog face and he backs off, but Stiles knows he hasn’t heard the last from him and he knows he’s just overstepped the friendship line. He’s not okay and he needs someone to talk to. Scott has always been his go-to, his best friend, and suddenly, he’s terrified of what all this new shit means and he can’t bring himself to tell Scott anything. When did his life become that much more fucked up?

He makes his decision halfway through chemistry: he’ll go see Derek. The bastard got him into this mess, so can certainly help explain it to him.

Stiles tries to tell himself that his rapid heartbeat at the very thought of Derek is fear and anxiety over seeing him, and not something deeper or more anticipatory. No, he’s just freaking out, like normal.

Normal, freaked-out Stiles. Yup. That’s all.

When he knocks on Derek’s door later that day he tries to remind himself that he’s there for answers. Knowledge is power, and Stiles is in some desperate need of powerful knowledge right now, because the Aderall isn’t kicking in and he has to have something to focus on other than the thought of Derek’s leather jacket hanging on the back of his bedroom door at home.

No one answers. Stiles scowls.

“Derek!”

Still no answer. Stiles rolls his eyes and pushes open the front door with a huff.

“Derek, dude, I have no idea how you can live here, man. This place is a tomb. Literally. And all these charred walls cannot be good for your lungs. I worry about you, I do.”

He stops short when a mass of body steps in front him, blocking his entrance into the living room. His eyes trail up the pale expanse of skin to a stubble covered neck, chin, and finally to a pair of green eyes. No red in sight and the realization soothes Stiles’ nerves. He likes Derek’s eyes green. He sighs in relief upon seeing Derek’s human face, and almost all of the tension leaves his body. The shaking he’d been experiencing all day stops and he figures the Aderall has just kicked in, because his brain clears and he can focus again.

“Better?”

Stiles narrows his eyes at Derek in what he hopes is a menacing manner. “What do you mean, better?”

Derek smiles, walks over to the nearest door jam and starts doing pull ups, his back to Stiles.

“Derek, I gotta say, your hospitality is _choice,_ my friend. No, really. I feel like I’m on vacation or something.”

“Shut up, Stiles.”

“See! You’re too kind. I would love to sit down, and no thanks, I don’t need a cold beverage, I’ve got a Capri Sun waiting for me at home. I’m good.”

“What do you want, Stiles?”

“Ah, there. Yes, I need some answers.”

“Need?” Derek stops mid pull up to stare over his shoulder at Stiles, his eyebrow cocked.

“Kinda, sorta, need, yeah.”

Dropping to the floor into a plank, Derek starts doing push ups, and seemingly ignores Stiles’ quandary.

“You can keep working out. It’s cool. I just, umm . . . “ he scratches the back of his neck, at a loss for words. The muscles in Derek’s back are distracting, and the tattoo between his shoulder blades seems to ripple with each push, it’s hypnotizing.

When Stiles realizes he’s blatantly staring with his mouth open, he smacks himself in the face and scowls down at the big bad wolf in front of him.

“Fuck!” Stiles stomps away to the front porch, feeling frustrated and . . . frustrated. Yeah, just frustrated. Nothing else at all. Nope.

Derek’s at his back in seconds, leaving Stiles no room to breathe or think because the scent on the jacket that’s so damn addicting is intensified times twenty behind him. His eyes close and he sucks in a long breath that leaves him gasping for more air, but it’s as if Derek has taken it all from him. It pisses him off.

“Stop it.”

“I’m not doing anything.”

“Yes, you are. Stop stealing my oxygen. I need that shit.”

Stiles can hear Derek’s small laugh behind him and he spins, anger flaring up inside him.

“What did you do? Why do I have this damn scar? And all these . . . feelings!? I’m actually angry, right now. Do you know how often I get angry? Almost never, dude! I get frustrated and anxious but never angry and right now, I feel angry, and the crazy thing about it is? I think the anger is coming from you. I think _you’re_ making me feel this way, and that’s pissing me off even more cause why the hell can I _feel_ what you’re feeling!?”

“It’s not anger.”

“Then what the hell is it?”

Stiles can see that Derek is trying to hold back a smile and he growls back at him. The whole growling thing is a new development as well. Growling is a wolf thing, not a hyperactive teenager thing.

“How did you feel when you first saw me today, Stiles?”

“What?”

“How did you feel?”

His arms fly up in the air like a broken rag doll by way of answer.

“How did you feel?”

“What are you a skipping record?”

Derek’s eyebrow arching above his hairline is the only answer Stiles gets.

“Fine. I felt . . . calm. Relieved.”

“Me too. And this anger that you feel now?”

“It’s more like frustration. Frustration and . . . “ Stiles ducks his head, but he can’t hide the blush on his face. Nor can he hide the rapid heartbeat that’s no doubt pulsing through Derek’s super sonic hearing.

“Is it more like, excitement?”

The words are hot and heavy in Stiles’ ear and it causes an involuntary shiver down his spine.

“Are you hard right now, Stiles?”

Jumping back from whatever Voodoo Derek is conducting on him, Stiles falls over the arm of the sofa and blops back onto the seat as dust clouds poof all around him.

The fact that Derek looks exceedingly pleased does not make Stiles feel comforted.

“Derek, did you forget to take your doggie meds today?”

“I don’t take meds.”

“Are you sure? Maybe we should get you some.”

“Shut up, Stiles.”

Derek leans over the sofa, his arms on either side of Stiles’ head and he breathes in, deep through his nose before he drops to mouth at the scar along Stiles’ collarbone.

Stiles feels drugged and lightheaded, but he’s pretty sure he hears Derek whisper, “mine,” against his skin. The single word makes his eyes bug out of his head.

“Is that what this is? Did you . . . did you . . . _claim_ me?

Derek’s head raises up, his pupils are blown wide and the slivers of iris Stiles can see are tinted red in the dim light of the living room. “Yes.”

The confession triggers a spastic freak out of epic proportions, as Stiles pushes at Derek’s shoulders and flails beneath him. Dust and ash is kicked up all around him, causing Stiles to cough in the middle of his panicking and soon, not only is he scrambling away to the far side of the room, he’s choking to death on what seems to be a lifetime’s supply of asbestos.

“Dude! You did not claim me! I refuse to believe that! I mean . . . shit, what the hell does that even mean?”

“You know what it means, Stiles.”

Derek is sitting on the sofa, his head bowed. He sounds resigned and defeated. It doesn’t sit well with his demeanor and it disturbs Stiles.

“I really don’t, Derek. All I have is Google, and an ancient Beastiary that I can’t even read since it’s in some fuck-old version of Latin.”

“To claim is to protect, to mark as owned.”

“You own me? Dude! Not cool.”

Derek sighs. “No, I don’t own you in the way you’re thinking. You’re not pack. The rules don’t apply.”

“So what was that whole licking business about with Peter?”

Derek growls at the mention of his name, and Stiles holds his hands up in surrender.

“He was trying to get under my skin.”

“It looks like it worked.”

When Derek’s wolf teeth appear and are bared in the direction of Stiles in his little hidey corner, the kid swallows heavy with a squeak.

“He doesn’t get to mark you. He lost that privilege.”

“Okay.”

Derek shoves away from the sofa and stalks upstairs. Stiles is left in the living room utterly baffled and wondering how structurally sound the house is, because Derek is not a light guy and those stairs look like they could use the attention of a good contractor.

It occurs to him that he’s being left with a choice: to follow Derek or to go home. The decision feels more profound than it should, but Stiles is keen enough to realize that it took a lot for Derek to admit what he just volunteered. There’s something more to Derek _claiming_ him and Stiles is too damn curious not to go find out.

He creeps up the stairs and down the only surviving hallway with minimal noise, though he doesn’t know why he’s bothering to stay quiet. He knows that Derek can hear his every footfall and heartbeat. There is one standing door left remaining on the upstairs landing and Stiles pushes it open with a gentle hand. Behind it, he sees a bed, a burnt out bureau and several broken windows.

Crossing that threshold means something, though Stiles doesn’t know what yet. Stepping over the charred bit of floorboard into the room beyond is a turning point in whatever the hell one would call his and Derek’s relationship, and Stiles knows that whatever happens won’t be what he’s expecting.

In a moment of panic, Stiles turns, ready to flee but just as he spins on his heel, a flash of red distracts him. It’s not the burning gaze of Derek’s wolf, but instead, it’s the dulled, cotton hoodie Derek had taken from Stiles not two nights ago during the full moon.

There, on the floor, at the foot of the bed, Derek sits, hoodie in hand, head bowed. The sight is confounding, but it’s changed the mental path that Stiles was heading down.

He doesn’t flee. He steps through the door and sits next to the lonely man on the floor of the decaying bedroom, and when he’s comfortable, he lays his head on Derek’s shoulder and closes his eyes.

He doesn’t know what he’s doing but that’s okay, he has Derek, and for some reason, that bit of knowledge is good enough. . . for now.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Never been kissed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by FarD.

Stiles stumbles into his room at two a.m. to find Allison and Scott sitting on his bed. He blinks. Twice. They’re still there.

“Seriously?”

“We need to talk, Stiles.”

The two of them have their arms folded over their chests, and the united front of what seems to be an intervention exhausts Stiles’ capacity to care.

“Can we do this tomorrow? I need sleep.” He flops head first onto his bed in between his two friends. They look at each other over his prone body for all of a second before hauling him back up to his feet by his jacket.

“Hey! Watch the man-handling!”

Scott’s all nose, sniffing at Stiles’ collar, and worse, his hands. The result makes him snort out the smell as if it offended him.

“Did you pet Derek’s hair?”

Stiles huffs and folds his arms. He doesn’t have to take this abuse. So, instead, he ignores the question.

“Dude! You did!” Scott is alarmed, and Allison is all pensive thought behind him.

“I have to ask my father about this.”

The two boys round on her. “No! You don’t!”

“Yes, I do, Scott. Derek just claimed a human. Are you up to date on the werewolf/human relations rule book?”

Scott growls and looks away. “No.”

“Then we have to go to someone who does. My father will know what all this means.”

“Uh, one problem.” Stiles perks up. “How are you supposed to ask without giving away that it’s me who’s been claimed?”

Allison shrugs.

“Great answer.”

“Oh come on, what better option do we have?”

“Hello?” Stiles waves his hands in the air as if the answer were obvious. “Derek.”

“I don’t trust him.” Allison’s eyes darken with her words.

“Well, you’re gonna have to, because he’s not the only one who’s done the claiming.”

Both Scott and Allison stare at Stiles as if he’s grown a second head. This is not an uncommon look coming from his friends, so Stiles decides this is as good a time as any to try falling face first on his bed and getting some shut eye. When he’s dragged back up to standing, again, within two seconds of him flopping onto the mattress, he loses it.

“People! Quit with the pulling and the shoving! I’m tired. I’m entirely too fucked in the head to concentrate right now. AND! You two will both have your asses handed to you if either of your parents find you’re not in your rooms. Now, stop making me sound like the adult here and get out.”

When neither of them move, Stiles sighs and sits down, resigned.

“Fine. Stay. But I’m sleeping.”

 

The next morning, there are two extra people in Stiles’ bed. He’s never experienced a ménage à trois, but he’s feeling pretty damn smug as he sits up to take in his lady companions. When he sees that one lady has huge ass feet with hair on the toes, he freaks.

“What the. . . ?”

“Stiles, is there something you need to explain to me?”

The Sheriff is standing in the doorway to his son’s room, amusement etched on his weather worn face.

“Uhhh . . . “

Stiles’ dad holds up his hands. “Relax, kid. I know you weren’t in here getting French with the decor.”

“What?”

“Just don’t be late for school.” The sheriff turns, closes the door, and shuffles down the hall. It’s only then that Stiles notices a fourth person in the room.

“Holy shit!”

Stiles is grabbing for his trusty pillow again when he sees Derek standing at the foot of the bed, his eyes red.

“Does anyone knock anymore?”

His only answer is a growl.

Stiles arches an eyebrow. “You don’t seriously think that we--” An even louder growl cuts him off mid sentence and Stiles jumps from the middle of the bed, limbs flailing. He’s caged by two  
strong arms the next second and feels so constricted, he coughs out a breath, shocked by how tight he’s being held.

“Are you doing this on purpose?” Derek’s nose is buried in Stiles’ neck, and Stiles is pretty sure he feels a warm tongue sucking at his pulse point. It does the work of distracting him before he registers what Derek has asked.

“What? No!”

“Stiles . . . “ Scott is rubbing the sleep out of his eyes when Stiles turns at the mention of his name. He sees the realization hit Scott as soon as the boy is lucid, and suddenly there are two sets of wolf eyes blazing about the room.

“Good grief.”

“What are you doing?”

Scott’s voice is surprisingly gruff and Stiles takes a moment to be impressed, before he’s shaken by the wolfy arm cage he’s being held in.

“We won’t take him from you, just . . . why did you do it, Derek?”

Derek’s grip loosens, and Stiles looks up to see the same crestfallen expression on his face that he’d seen the day before. It makes something spark inside Stiles and he wraps his arms around Derek’s torso, unconsciously rubbing his hands up and down his spine. When he feels a rumble come from Derek’s chest, he knows he’s done something right and smiles.

“Uhh, Stiles?”

Stiles picks his head up from where he’s been nuzzling into Derek’s shoulder and looks over at Scott, all goofball grin and droopy eyes. “Yeah?”

“You’re purring.”

Allison is sitting next to Scott on the bed, her arms folded and her eyes narrowed at Derek. She looks about as menacing as an angry kitten.

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you were,” Derek says, whispering into Stiles’ ear.

“Okay!” Allison calls, holding up her hands. “Enough snuggle times.” She checks her phone. “I have twenty minutes before my parents wake up, so you two need to start talking.”

Stiles scowls, clearly disappointed that he has to stop the snuggle times. He likes snuggle times. He feels that snuggle times should occur every morning, and if he weren’t terrified of Derek ripping his throat out at the suggestion, he’d totally suggest it.

“What do you want to know?” Derek asks.

“Why you’ve decided to lay claim to a seventeen year old boy.”

Stiles feels the flinch in Derek’s body, but it doesn’t read on his face. He’s as stoic as ever.

“For protection.”

“Only?” Scott asks. The two wolves share a silent exchange of menacing looks and a few growls, before Scott’s face softens and he sits back, his demeanor calm.

Allison sees the change in his stance and rounds on him. “What?”

“He’s telling the truth. He wants to protect him.”

“And that’s all?”

Derek’s arms seem to hold Stiles tighter as Allison waits for Scott to answer her. Stiles is almost positive that can see the anxiety coming off of Derek in tangible waves of emotion, but Scott surprises everyone with his answer.

“It’s how Alphas work. They see something they care about, they want to protect it.”

Derek’s growl is nothing but a low rumble that he’s sure only Scott can hear. It’s a warning. Scott backtracks.

“We all care about Stiles, Allison. Let’s just look at this as a good thing.”

She scowls at her boyfriend. “You are so lucky that I have to leave right now.” She climbs from the bed, gathers her things around the room, and is just about to walk out the door before she aims her pocket-sized crossbow level with Derek’s forehead.

“If you hurt him, Derek, I swear to god . . . “

“Ditto, Katniss.”

Scott is the first to snort out a laugh, and it only earns him a glare from Allison who darts out of the room in a huff. Scott’s eyes go wide, realizing the damage he’s just caused, and chases after her with his not-so-metaphorical tail between his legs.

“Ah, young love.” Stiles sighs and leans his head against Derek’s chest for added romantic effect.

“Wear the jacket today.”

“Hu--what?” He looks up at Derek, completely confused.

“My leather jacket. Wear it to school.”

“It’s huge on me.”

Derek merely arches an eyebrow.

“Why?”

“Because, right now, you smell like _them_ , and I want you to smell like me.” He buries his face in Stiles’ neck and nips at the scar along his collarbone. Stiles answers in a pitiful whimper and slumps like a ragdoll in Derek’s arms.

“Huuu--okay.”

“Good.”

And with that, the big bad wolf is gone and Stiles is left alone in his room, baffled, semi-hard and downright starving. He shakes off the odd edge of longing that’s floating up in his subconscious and decides that pop tarts would be an awesome way to start the day.

“Nice jacket, Stiles. Vintage?”

Lydia is starting at Stiles with her big doe eyes and pouty lips and he forgets to breathe for a second because, holy shit, did she just actually initiate a conversation with him?

“Uhh, yeah. Vintage. Totally Vin . . . tage.”

She looks the jacket up and down as if it’s a wild animal in a cage. “Nice.”

“Thanks.” His grin is entirely too goofy, and he’s so jazzed by the compliment that he doesn’t realize how far he’s leaned over in his desk. The next thing he knows, he’s face first on the tiled floor, his legs above him in some crazy, twisted mess and his desk is on it’s side.

He thankfully managed not to maul Lydia on his way down, but the shock sobered him to his situation. Derek would kill Stiles if he saw how happy Lydia talking to him made him. The thought only depresses Stiles momentarily because when he thinks of Derek, things go pear shaped in his vision and he gets all loopy in the brain. He supposes that’s a good thing since feeling high and silly are all positives in his book, so Stiles doesn’t dwell on the fact that Derek might have involuntarily made him gay. 

Oh a whim, he checks out Danny in the back corner. Stiles can’t seem to get excited over looking at a dude. After all, it’s just Danny. Maybe Stiles is just Derek gay? Like Jackson might be just Danny gay.

“Stalinski!”

“Yes? Wha--yes. What?”

He turns forward to see his coach seething at him from the front of the room, his left eye twitching like a broken clock hand.

“Answer the question!”

“Oh, umm . . .” He ponders the problem written on the board for a half second before coming to the conclusion of, “seven beavers, sir.”

Taken aback, the coach blinks at Stiles several times before rounding on the next student. Stiles assumes he answered correctly and goes back to wondering about his subjective gayness. The true test is when he lifts the lapel of Derek’s jacket and takes in the smell of him that still lingers on the fabric. That warm, heady scent of musk, pine trees and cedar mixed with freshly baked Christmas cookies.

Yes, Derek Hale smells like pine trees and Christmas cookies and Stiles knows that if he were to bottle that scent he’d be a millionaire perfume mogul in no time. He’d name the cologne _Wolf_ , and would have the bottle be spherical with a wolf etched into the glass, as if it were howling in front of a full moon.

He’s so busy dreaming up his future business profits that he doesn’t realize that his final class has been dismissed and that Scott is staring at him with a confused expression.

What else is new?

“Having fun daydreaming?”

“Oh, shut up.”

Scott’s laughing as they walk out the door. “You kept on sniffing your coat.”

“Did everyone see?”

“No. Just Lydia.”

Stiles smacks himself in the face. “Awesome.”

When they reach the parking lot, Scott’s the first to notice a visitor in the Jeep. He grins.

“I’ll take my bike today.”

“Why?”

“Look.”

Stiles sees Derek waiting patiently in the passenger side of the Jeep and smacks himself in the head again.

“Why am I nervous?”

“Because first dates are hard.”

“Shut up.” He grabs Scott’s keys and sends them flying across the parking lot. “Go fetch!”

“Derp.”

“Sour wolf!” He shouts after him as Scott jogs off.

Climbing into the Jeep is awkward. It doesn’t help that Stiles trips and bangs his chin on the steering wheel.

“How was school?”

Stiles gives Derek a sideways glance. “You serious?”

“You mean, do I care?”

“Yes.”

“Not really, no.”

“Good, ‘cause you’re freaking me out.”

Derek nods, seemingly satisfied with Stiles’ level of anxiety and stares straight ahead, waiting for him to start the Jeep.

Stiles doesn’t want to admit it, but he hasn’t felt this calm the entire day and he’s pretty damn sure it’s Derek’s presence that’s keeping him grounded.

Naturally, nothing can keep Stiles quiet and calm for long, so he blurts out the first thing that pops into his mind out of sheer determination to start a conversation.

“You smell like Christmas cookies.”

He slams on the breaks the second he says it, as if the pedal could somehow halt his verbal idiocy, but it’s no use and Stiles’ only option is to bang his head against the steering wheel.

The warm hand at the back of his neck stops him.

“Stiles.”

Derek is looking at him as if he were a special child. Not special as in cherished, but special as in takes the short bus to school. His eyes are wide and he speaks slowly as he addresses him. “That was a very nice thing to say.”

Stiles throws him off and starts up the Jeep again, grumbling to himself, wondering how he’s wound up claimed by a werewolf and selectively Derek gay.

Stiles doesn’t stop driving until he reaches the edge of Derek’s property. He throws the Jeep into park and turns towards him with a face that reads, _Well? What now?_

“Have you ever been kissed, Stiles?”

“What?” Stiles squeaks.

Derek has that talking-to-a-special-child expression again as he slowly repeats himself. “Have. You ever. Been kissed?”

Gulping hard, Stiles shakes his head.

“Then close your eyes.”

Nodding and panicking all at once, Stiles closes his eyes. He barely feels the brush of Derek’s lips when he backs up so fast, his head hits the window.

“Oh my god, this is too awkward. I can’t, okay? I can’t. I’m sorry. But I can’t.”

Derek sighs and listens quietly as Stiles lists the reasons why he can’t make out with a werewolf. He lets him get up to ten on his fingers before Derek grabs him by the neck and swallows his endless words with his tongue.

“Mer-umph!”

Stiles jerks in his seat, before the strong hand at the back of his neck massages him into relaxation. Those fingers rubbing circles into his tight muscles act like a silent Morse code, signalling to him that it’s okay, it’s safe. The world melts away, his thoughts melt away and all that’s left is sensation: stubble scraping against his chin that he surprisingly likes, wet pressure and delicate suction working at his mouth, and those evil hands moving and molding him like clay to Derek’s will.

Stiles likes it here, in this happy-go-lucky Derek kissing land, where the smell of Christmas cookies and cedar chips is heavy in the air and there’s a tongue in his mouth that is causing obscene and lovely images to spring forth in his brain. He wishes he could build a cabin here and stay for the summer, but someone is playing the Imperial March and totally killing his Derek kissing buzz. How rude.

Pulling back, he realizes his cell phone is ringing. It’s the police station, so he knows he can’t ignore it.

“You should go, Stiles.”

“Go? Wait. Dude, I was just getting into it!”

Derek laughs and leans his forehead against the kid he’s become entirely too obsessed with for his own good. “I know.”

“Then why do I have to go?” Stiles doesn’t care that he sounds whiny, he’s never been kissed and Derek is a really good fucking kisser - he never wants to stop.

“Because, if you don’t go now, your father will have an actual reason to arrest me.”

Stiles’ eyes go wide and he can’t help but bounce a little bit at that insanely huge tease of an implication.

“Go home. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Derek leaves the Jeep before Stiles can put together a valid argument for him to stay. He sits there pouting for another two minutes, before the Imperial March sounds off again in his car and he turns the keys in the ignition.

“Okay, okay. I’m going.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drama happens. Hospital visits and snuggle times ensue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My beta is a mother of three who I hate bothering so this chapter is unchecked. I apologize for any mistakes.

Everything is happy-go-lucky lightsabers and moonbeams to Stiles as he drives down to the station. He’s aware that even though he’s now definitely Derek gay and totally needs to have a heart-to-heart with himself, he’s also had his very first make-out session and it was beyond awesome. His primary thoughts center around when he can do it again up until he pulls into the parking lot of the department and sees Daddy Argent’s black monster of an SUV parked in front of the door.

“Not good. Not good.”

He’s unbuckled his seat belt and is running towards the station within seconds of throwing the Jeep into park. He flings himself inside and sees the front desk is unmanned and that the security cameras have been blown out of their sockets on the walls.

His initial instinct is to yell _dad_ at the top of his lungs but he knows better than to draw attention to himself.

Creeping down along the wall into the back part of the station house, he sees black stains on the carpet and a smear of what looks like motor oil on the door handle that leads to the holding cells.

“What the . . .?”

Tucking the leather of Derek’s jacket over his hand, he opens the door without touching the smudge of black on the frame, having already learned his lesson with the Kanima and random, slimy, paralyzing substances on door handles.

Voices are echoing off the walls. Stiles strains to make out his father’s but all he hears is the garbled, gritty cadence of the Principal. Aka Grandpa Argent. Aka Sheer evil embodied in John McCain’s doppelganger but with a creepier twist. He manages to peek his head around the corner and sees his dad’s slumped body strapped and cuffed to a steel chair; an electric box is next to him that leads a line of wire directly to taped patches on his torso. Grandpa Argent has a remote control in his hand that he’s clearly been using and to Stiles’ shock, Daddy Argent is passed out cold at his feet.

What the actual fuck?

He can’t worry about Allison’s dad right now. He can’t worry about anything else except getting the evil geezer deader than dead and saving his dad from the electric chair. Literally.

Stiles knows he has the upper hand here but just barely. He has the element of surprise and that’s it. So what the fuck does he do?

“Think, Stiles.”

His brain is firing off thoughts and ideas so fast he’s straining to hold onto one but in the end, they all boil down to Derek. _Call Derek._

“No,” he tells himself. He can’t call Derek. That’s what Grandpa Argent wants. He wants the Alpha and this whole thing could be a sick, twisted way of luring Derek directly to him. But how the fuck did Gerard find out about Stiles and Derek anyway? Or is this all just a lucky guess?

The Argent’s don’t deal with luck. No, this was premeditated. Stiles just doesn’t know the reasoning behind it and he doesn’t have time to analyze it now. Grandpa Argent has his dad, and Stiles can feel the fury burning up inside of him at the mere idea of anything happening to his father.

He texts Scott then holds his breath, hoping he’s by his phone.

The answering vibration in his palm let’s him know he is. With a sigh of relief, Stiles ducks and runs to his dad’s desk. He knows that his dad still he keeps a glock hidden in the bottom drawer as a safety precaution. Stiles always thought his dad was a bit paranoid packing extra heat in a place like Beacon Hills but as of late, he’s starting to think his father must be psychic or just a genius. Either way, he’s grateful for his father’s forethought as he grabs the gun from beneath a pile of old paperwork.

He turns and is met head on with a wall of muscle that he bounces back from as if he were a basketball hitting the backboard.

A hand clamps down on his mouth and he tries to shout but hot lips are by his ear, telling him to shut up, and all the tension leaves his body in a woosh.

The relief is only instantaneous because Derek needs to not be where the Argents are. He needs to be as far away from them as possible. This is so not good.

“You need to go!” Stiles mouths, his heart racing.

Derek just levels him with a glare that says shut up and let me handle this. Stiles shakes his head and tries to shove him back out the door but it’s fruitless and Derek actually rolls his eyes at Stiles’ pathetic attempts to move him.

“Seriously?”

“Dude! You can’t be here!”

Derek grabs Stiles by the back of the neck, kisses him hard on the mouth.

“Shut up, Stiles.”

His back is turned and he’s stalking down the hallway before Stiles can even protest about feeling like a damn chick and how so not cool that is, but then his brain catches up with him and he starts running after him.

There’s a crash, a bang, a zap, and a growl before Stiles reaches the room. When he skids to a halt inside the door frame he’s met with the image of the evil geezer’s face on the concrete floor and Derek undoing the bindings on his dad’s chair.

“Okay, why was that so easy?”

Derek looks up at him with an arched eyebrow.

“I’m serious! This shit is never simple.” He spins around in a circle, anticipating more attacks. “How do we know Grandpa Vader here doesn’t have ninjas on call?”

Derek sighs as he undoes the cuffs on the Sheriff, the last thing holding him to the chair. The man’s body falls forward and Derek catches him, easily holding his weight.

“We need to get him to the hospital.”

Stiles scrambles, getting the door and helping Derek maneuver his dad into the Jeep out front.

“You go. I’ll take care of the Argents.”

“What are you going to do?” Stiles’ is practically vibrating with nerves and adrenaline. Derek can smell it on him and he wants to do something to calm the kid but frankly, he needs to go make sure that the old fart inside has a very unfortunate and fatal accident before he wakes up.

“Take care of your dad, Stiles.”

Derek gives the Sheriff a meaningful look and Stiles follows his line of sight. He starts the car as soon as he sees the trickle of blood at the corner of his dad’s mouth and drives off without a further word.

Derek watches the Jeep speed out of the parking lot. He saw the tears in Stiles’ eyes and doesn’t blame him for them. Derek has no one, except a pack of meddling kids. He can understand wanting to hold onto the only lifeline you have left.

Turning away from thoughts of his own lost family he stalks back into the station house with a set to his jaw and a fire in his belly. The Argents have been a thorn in his side for too long, it’s time for some retribution.

He smells Scott before he hears him.

“Follow Stiles to the hospital. He needs you.”

“What are you going to do?”

Derek turns to see Scott, crouched low behind him.

“I’m settling the score.”

“How?”

“Go help Stiles, Scott.”

He’s already inside by the time Scott follows and he doesn’t care. But when he reaches the room, he’s met with yet another surprise: Gerard Argent’s lifeless body with Peter Hale standing watch over him.

He looks past Derek as he enters the room.

“Hello there, Scott.”

“Where’s the son?” Derek asks.

“Gone.”

“You let him go?”

“No. He was gone before I got here.”

Derek growls but in truth, it sounds more like a sigh.

“Were you looking forward to killing him that much?”

“I wasn’t going to.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Hello!”

Both Hales turn to see Scott waving his arms in the air. “Excuse me! We have a dead body on our hands here. Does anyone care?”

“He died from natural causes,” Peter says, not looking up from Gerard.

“He what?”

“He was bleeding before I even touched him,” Derek says over his shoulder. “You didn’t see the stains out front?”

Scott’s face reads embarrassment but he scowls to cover it. Derek looks around the room, feels exhaustion setting in and decides he’s done with this day. He turns abruptly from the conversation and starts walking out the door with both Scott and Peter calling after him. He doesn’t bother to answer because whatever the hell the Argents were trying to accomplish by holding the Sheriff hostage can wait.. He’s tired, strained and thinking entirely too much about Stiles to care about the backlash his pack will receive from Gerard’s death. He selfishly wants to find some peace and he knows exactly where to get it.

 

“You can go in to see him now,” the robotic nurse says to Stiles. He jumps up from the seats in the waiting area and flings himself into his father’s room, just narrowly missing knocking over the IV of a patient in the hallway.

“Dad?”

His father’s face looks ashen in the harsh light pouring down from above his hospital bed but he’s awake and he’s breathing - that works for Stiles. He throws himself onto his dad, hugging him for all he’s worth. Then, realizing that he might dislodge a needle or a catheter or something worse, he springs back and falls over the chair beside the bed.

“Stiles,” his dad says, his face concerned as his son wrestles with the furniture. 

“I’m good. I’m good.” Stiles decides that sitting is his best option and literally shoves his hands under his thighs to keep himself from disturbing anything else.

The two men stare at eachother, not speaking. The silence is not a cold, unfeeling one but an anxious, overflowing silence of relief and apology. _I’m sorry I wasn’t there. I’m so insanely relieved and that happy you’re okay._ Stiles picks up his father’s hand and squeezes.

“You can’t go anywhere.”

“I know.”

Stiles shakes his head. “No, you don’t. You just . . . you can’t. You can’t--”

The pressure of his father’s hand squeezing his own halts Stiles from his thoughts. He looks up and stares at his dad’s face, so much older than he remembered. Why do people always look more frail in hospital beds?

“I’m not going anywhere, kid. I promise.”

With a stiff nod, Stiles drops his head and stares at their hands. He tries to hide the watery mess of his face but he knows he can’t, not from his dad. So instead, he just lets the tears fall.

Hours pass. Stiles has long since fallen asleep in his chair, bent in half with his face plastered to his father’s hand. He’s been drooling but his dad can’t bring himself to tell Stiles that, not when they haven’t been this close or felt this connected in a long while. He falls asleep like that, watching his son drool on his hand and not caring, hoping that it’s not too late to still be his father, to still hope that Stiles is just a kid and not the adult he’s seen emerging from his son these pasts months.

He doesn’t want to lose him to the real world just yet.

Mrs. McCall wakes Stiles soon after his father has drifted off, shaking his shoulder gently.

“You should get some sleep, Stiles. In an actual bed.”

He grunts and scrubs his face, expecting his father’s nurse not Scott’s mom.

“Oh, hey, Mrs. McCall.”

“Hey.” She smiles at him. “Go home, Stiles. I just came on shift. I’ll keep an eye on him for you.”

Beyond grateful but reluctant to leave, Stiles lingers near his father’s bed scared to let him out of his sight.

“I’ll watch him. I promise.”

Mrs. McCall hugs him and gently leads him out of the room. “Are you okay to drive?”  
Stiles nods and shuffles down the hall, his head bowed, Derek’s leather jacket clutched tight in his hands. He feels too jittery to falls asleep again anytime soon, but the pillow of his bed is calling him from straight across town and the closer he gets to his Jeep the heavier his eyelids become.

By the time he pulls into his driveway, he’s practically catatonic.

Stiles shuts the door to his house behind him and drops his head back against it, exhausted beyond measure. He can’t even bring himself to move, which is why he’s surprised when his body suddenly goes weightless and he’s being carried up the stairs to his room.

His head lolls against a strong shoulder and he blinks blearily at Derek’s stubbled jaw above him.

“We need to have a serious conversation about not making me the chick, okay?”

He’s half asleep but he swears he hears a small chuckle come from Derek before he feels himself being lowered to the bed. He’s soon wrapped up in a cocoon of heat that makes everything in his brain shut down and turn still. It’s the safest he’s ever felt and he falls easily into a deep, dreamless sleep.

When he wakes, he’s decidedly less clothed than he remembers. At least, that’s the first thing he focuses on; the next is that he’s burning up like a furnace. Shifting does nothing but make the coils of heat secured around him tighten and a grumble to sound behind him. It vibrates into his chest and he shivers despite the sweat sticking to his skin.

A scratchy chin rubs into the crook of his neck and a warm tongue runs along the scar at Stiles’ collarbone. He can’t help but close his eyes at the sensation and pushes back into the wall of warmth behind him. So what if he suffocates from heat stroke? At least there are snuggles times - Stiles loves snuggle times.

Despite feeling safe and cherished and snuggled and all those good, puppy dog, lovely-dovey things, once his brain is awake, he can’t stop its wheels from churning and turning. And no matter how hard he tries to relax into Derek’s cocoon of limbs and heat, he’s sweating like a pig and this can’t possibly be comfortable for his wolfy companion.

“Derek?”

“Mmph.”

“I’m dying a little here.”

“Mmph.”

Stiles tries to shift, to put an inch or two between them but he’s suddenly jostled and flipped to his back on the bed. He blinks and there’s a very red-eyed and toothy Derek above him.

“Uhh, I just needed a little breathing room?”

Derek’s mouth is at his throat, nipping at his pulse point and sucking all the sensitive spots he can find. “No.” It’s barely a word, more of a warning.

“I was sweating to death.”

Derek’s head shakes back and forth, scratching the reddened skin of Stiles’ neck with the scruff of his chin. That shouldn’t feel as amazing as it does but dammit, it’s making Stiles’ toes curl and his back arch.

“Let me just . . . my shirt.”

Stiles shimmys beneath Derek, trying to pull off the damp cotton while splayed on his back. Derek doesn’t seem to like this because Stiles hears a growl and then a rip before cool air is hitting his moist skin, making everything pebble into gooseflesh and his breath catch in his throat.

“Don’t. Make me--” Derek cuts himself off and nuzzles Stiles’ neck. “Just, stop moving.”

“Did you . . . just rip my shirt off?”

A grunt is his reply.

“Dude! Okay, serrrrrriously. We need to sit down and discuss how you’re not going to turn me into the chick. I mean, clearly I’m the smaller of the two of us, but that doesn’t mean that I’ll be--”

Hot lips and a hotter tongue stop Stiles from his tirade and soon he’s whimpering and moaning out pitiful little noises that make Derek kiss him harder and press him into the mattress. He takes it all, savoring every last lick but his brain won’t let him stop wondering why Derek won’t let him move. As an evil experiment, he shifts his weight beneath Derek’s hips. The responding vibrations in Derek’s chest and the way he shoves his entire body _down_ into Stiles makes him arch and moan. There is something very hard in Derek’s jeans and it’s rubbing and rutting against him in just the right way.

“Someone’s excited.”

“Shut up, Stiles.”

He laughs and tries to spar with Derek some more but there’s a tongue in his mouth that’s doing things that probably aren’t legal in several states and a hand on his hip that is sending shock waves directly to his cock.

Stiles actually mewls and scratches at Derek’s back, begging for more and hating himself because he’s so totally the girl here and reluctantly he finds that he’s kind of okay with that. . .

For now.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles finds out that claiming is a two way street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by FarD. This is the final part but there will be one more tiny speck of a chapter to tie up some loose ends in a week or so.

Stiles is snuggled - yes, _snuggled_ \- on top of Derek’s chest, his head buried in his scruffy neck, as the sun slowly creeps its way through the bedroom window. There’s a slight sense of deja vu about the whole thing, except they’re not paralyzed from reptile venom and the fact that they both have semis isn’t being awkwardly ignored this time around.

Neither of them are wearing shirts and even though Derek seems to be radiating off heat like a raging bonfire gone rogue in the woods, Stiles still slides his hands along his moist skin, enjoying how illicit it seems to touch, and how addictive it is that he’s actually allowed. Derek doesn’t stop him, in fact he hums in contentment the more Stiles explores what’s exposed to him.

Derek can feel the anxiety creeping up in Stiles, staining his emotions like ink dripped in water and ruining the peace Derek’s found beneath him. “Why are you nervous?” he grumbles, draping an arm over the boy on top of him.

“Dude, I’m touching a dude.”

“You’ve touched me before.”

“Not like this.”

Stiles’ hands shake a little as he trails his fingers down to the _v_ of Derek’s hips. He’s trying so hard not to blow this, not to say something stupid and fuck everything up, but his brain doesn’t seem to let him be and it’s getting harder not to blurt out everything he wants to say.

Just as he feels a ramble of epic proportions bubbling up in his throat, Derek surprises him by placing a hand on the back of his neck. His skin is warm as his fingers massage out the knots and kinks in Stiles’ muscles, cutting off the word vomit that was no doubt about to occur.

Stiles sighs and can feel the tension leave his body. He shivers and shakes his head, confounded.

“How do you do that?”

“Hmm?” Derek’s eyes are closed. He looks perfectly content to never move ever again.

“Make me . . . calm. How do you do it?”

Derek doesn’t answer, he just trails a finger along the scar on Stiles’ collarbone.

“That’s part of it?”

Derek nods.

“You never really told me what this all means.”

“Because it doesn’t really affect you, only me.”

Taken aback, Stiles leans up on his arm to look down at Derek. His eyes are now open.

“Dude, you just admitted that you can calm me with touch from this thing and yet it doesn’t affect me? Bull shit.”

Derek sighs and turns his face away from the accusing look Stiles is giving him. This was not part of the plan.

“I told you before, you’re not pack, the rules don’t apply to you like they do to me.”

“So tell me the rules.” Stiles has now braced both arms on either side of Derek’s shoulders, refusing to let him look anywhere but at his face. Derek’s glare does nothing but make Stiles more determined to find out what all these rules are, and why Derek thinks he’s not pack. He might not howl at the moon, but his best friend’s a werewolf who knows his scent by heart and an Alpha claimed him as his, if that ain’t some sort of pseudo pack acceptance, what the hell is?

Derek, however, is not ready to play show-n-tell and shoves Stiles away with a bit too much force. He flies backward, falling off the bed and landing hard on the floor, and doesn’t get up. Derek’s instinct is to immediately see if he’s alright, but he holds back, even though it burns inside to do so.

“That’s cool, I’m fine. Just throw me away like a piece of junk mail, that’ll make everything better. No worries.”

Derek can see Stiles hands waving him off from the floor so he knows he’s physically okay, but it’s the biting sarcasm and bitterness in his voice that cuts through Derek’s hardened exterior.

Slowly, he leans over the bed, spotting Stiles lying on the floor with an angry set to his jaw. It makes the bones of his face stand out in harsh contrast to his pale skin. In fact, he doesn’t look like Stiles at all, he looks like a toy that’s been chipped and broken one too many times only to be abandoned by its owner.

“You’re an asshole.”

Derek doesn’t deny it. Instead he takes a deep breath and tries to explain himself.

“The less you know, the safer you are.”

Stiles’ eyes bug out of his head with frustration. “I think we’re past the whole ‘safe’ part of the programing. We haven’t been in PG land for months, Derek. What world are you living in?”

“The one where you’re still breathing.”

Derek’s eyes have gone red, and he tries to hide them before shoving away from the bed and stalking around to where Stiles is lying on the floor. He drags him up hard by his arms and crowds his face.

“Claiming someone isn’t just for protection, you idiot. It’s for life.”

His words are rough and low and Stiles swallows down his own, too disturbed to speak.

“What I did is permanent and I’ve accepted it. I don’t expect you to. I don’t want to expect anything from you because if I start doing that I’ll go insane.”

“What if I want to?” Stiles asks.

“Want what?”

“To accept it. What do I do to claim you back?”

Derek growls and looks away. Stiles doesn’t let him go far. He grabs his arm and holds him in place, even though he knows it’s Derek who’s stopped moving. If he wanted to, he could throw him off, the fact that he hasn’t gives Stiles hope.

“Who says you get to make all the decisions?”

“You’re a kid, Stiles.”

On instinct, Stiles stands taller. “No I’m not.”

“Yes, you are. And I’m the creep who’s claimed you and sneaks into your bed at night.”

“I want you to!”

“That doesn’t matter!”

Stiles flails. “Seriously? Are you fucking serious right now? Derek, I buried my mom at thirteen. I started balancing my dad’s checkbook and buying the groceries and cooking at fourteen. In the past month alone I’ve had two brushes with death, and just last night I watched my dad almost _die_ on me by the hands of vigilantes who are supposed to be the good guys. Who the fuck knows how any long of us have? Do you think I give a shit that you’re older or that I’m only seventeen? You claimed me. _I’m_ accepting it and I want to claim you back. Now, tell me how to fucking to do it or I will seriously taser your tight wolf ass to death.”

It’s the last part of the speech that has Derek’s eyebrow arching into his hairline.

“Okay, that might have sounded a little gay.”

Derek’s eyebrow only arches higher.

“Okay, legit gay. But, I’m apparently a flaming homosexual with a wolf fetish and I want to claim my gay tight-ass boyfriend. So, tell me how to do it before something shiny or red-headed distracts me and I start turning the corner into Straight-ville again.”

Derek is suddenly crowding him back against the door, not letting him breathe, or even think. He’s all over him, hands and lips and teeth, and Stiles shudders with the onslaught of sensation.

“What are you--”

“Bite me.”

Stiles rolls his eyes and shoves at Derek’s shoulders. “You’re such an asshole.”

Derek levels him with his red-stare. “No, I’m serious. Bite. Me.”

Stiles blinks at him. “What?”

“Draw my blood. If your intention is to claim, it will scar, permanently marking me.”

“Are you serious right now?”

Derek growls and shoves his hips into Stiles. The boy is infuriating and entirely too addictive for his own good. Even the never ending ranting is somehow sexy coming from him, and Derek can’t fathom why but he wants him.

“Do it.”

Stiles’ mouth drops open, slightly disturbed by what he has to do but Derek’s tongue is invading his confusion, and he’s suddenly too caught up in grinding hips and strong hands to care. It’s only when Derek pulls away and steps back from him that he whimpers and opens his eyes.

“Why’d you stop?”

“You need to do it. Now.”

“Why now?” Stiles is stalling and he knows it. So does Derek. He steps back further and Stiles eyes grow wide with disappointment.

“You were ready to saw off my arm yet you can’t leave a little scratch on me?”

Stiles gulps and tries for words that don’t come. Derek smirks at him, moving back another step. Each inch he creates between their bodies burns at him, as if he were ripping a bandage from a wound too soon, but if Stiles wants this, he needs take control.

“How?”

“Come here and I’ll show you.”

Stiles walks towards him, trying to hold his head high but his heart hammering in his chest gives him away. Derek sees him as a scared animal, ready to flee at the slightest sound so he doesn’t dare move.

When Stiles is close enough, Derek slowly lifts his arm and pulls him the rest of the way, leading his head towards his neck.

“I have to do it with my teeth?”

Derek nods. He knows his nails aren’t sharp enough.

“You realize I’m not a vampire, right?”

The huff of frustration keeps Stiles from speaking further and he latches onto Derek’s collarbone as hard as he can, hoping against hope that his teeth digging in on the bone will draw blood sooner rather than later.

Derek sets his jaw and just barely keeps his nails from popping as Stiles bites harder and harder against him. He can feel his determination wavering, sensing his anxiety in the air, and it cuts through the annoying pain at his throat.

“Don’t,” he warns. “You have to intend to mark me, Stiles. If you’re worried about hurting me it won’t work.” Derek runs his hand along Stiles’ back, forcing him closer, pushing his fingers deep into his skin, telling him _harder_.

Stiles pauses but only for a second before the smell of anxiety changes in the air to something more potent and a sharp pain cuts through Derek’s skin, bringing with it the coppery scent of blood. Stiles backs off quickly, rubbing the back of his hands against his mouth and making a face, but the bite is there, staining Derek’s tanned skin red and an overwhelming sense of pride swells throughout the wolf inside him. It vibrates through his veins like adrenaline and pushes out his fingertips, making him latch onto the boy in front of him.

“Mine,” he growls as he kisses his wet, wine-colored mouth, ignoring the off taste of metal lingering there and searching for the undeniable flavor of the human beneath.

Stiles is shaking, his fingers slipping on Derek’s shoulders from the intensity he’s forcing out onto Stiles. It’s pulsing in the room like someone’s turned up the volume to eleven on every speaker in a five mile radius and, Jesus, he can’t even breathe.

“Wait!” he backs up, gasping for breath. “Air. Need air.”

Derek stalks him, pushing Stiles against the door and purposefully rolling his hips against him. His mouth drops open and he’s knees buckle.

“Dude, you have to stop doing that.”

“What, exactly?” Derek grinds his hips harder into Stiles, forcing a groan out of his mouth as he bites his lip. The site makes Derek’s eyes bloom red and he latches onto the swollen mouth in front of him, further bruising it, claiming it.

“Mine.”

“My god, you’re possessive.”

Derek chuckles, deep and low as he sucks at Stiles’ throat. “You have no idea, Stiles.”

The look on his face makes Stiles gulp hard, simultaneously frightened and turned-on beyond measure. He’s a teenager, after all. A strong wind could make him hard, but Derek’s collarbone shows the crescent moon shape of a scar that Stiles put there with his own damn teeth and the image makes him want to do downright illegal things to the man.

Before he knows what he’s doing, he’s sucking hard on the scar, mouthing _mine_ over and over again as Derek smirks with pride above him. The word “mate” is echoing off the walls of Stiles’ mind but he doesn’t know where it’s coming from, all he knows is that he’s insatiable and there’s a tall, dark, and wolfy man in front of him who can fix that.

“We’re so fucked, aren’t we?”

Derek nods, dragging Stiles back from the door to the bed. “Yup. Totally fucked.”

Stiles flops down, eager to kiss the scar he’s marked Derek with again. “Kay. Good. Long as we’re on the same page.”

“Shut up, Stiles.”

“Shutting up.”

He kisses Derek for all he’s worth, all tongue and hands and limbs. He holds onto him like a lifeline and full out moans when the man lays flat on top of him, pressing him into the mattress with his hips. Beacon Hills maybe the new Hellmouth, and the Argents may be after Derek, his pack and Scott, but as Stiles shimmies out of his jeans and pulls at Derek’s belt loops, he knows that outside, all is quiet, and for now that’s all that matters.


End file.
